


Heavenly Music

by LoversAntiquities



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hunters, Beaches, Christmas, Christmas Vacation, Deaf Dean Winchester, First Kiss, Florida, Gen, Hurt Castiel, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mute Castiel (Supernatural), SPN Holiday Mixtape 2018
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-20
Updated: 2018-12-20
Packaged: 2019-09-23 15:28:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17082926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoversAntiquities/pseuds/LoversAntiquities
Summary: Never before has Dean Winchester taken a vacation, especially one so far away from home. On the way to Florida for a Christmas getaway, he and his brother Sam happen upon an unusual sight. Taking care of a recently expelled angel wasn't anywhere in his plans, but getting to know Castiel is almost too easy. But then again, in a life fraught with the tough hunts and even tougher monsters, he'll take what he can get. It also helps that Castiel is all too eager to enjoy humanity as well.





	Heavenly Music

**Author's Note:**

> Dean suffers from hearing impairment due to hearing an angel's voice.

The road to Panama City is long and arduous, fraught with thick humidity rushing into open windows and the sun beating down at all hours. Eagerly, Dean welcomes it. Undoubtedly, this has been the worst winter he’s experienced, and it’s always good to know there are always places he can go to seek refuge from the cold, even if it means driving a few hundred miles across the country just to get there.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been more excited about taking a vacation in my life,” Sam announces from the passenger seat, raking his hands through his hair. At his side, Dean laughs and thumps the steering wheel. “No, seriously. Last year? When we tried to go to California and got waylaid by your leg—”

“That was not my fault,” Dean points a finger at Sam. “It was raining, man. Anyone could’ve fallen into that grave.”

Sam laughs. “Really? That’s your excuse? A cat meowed at you and you panicked.”

“It’s not polite to lie, Sammy.” Dean rolls his eyes, still with a grin. “We still got the rest of the day ahead of us, might as well settle in.”

“Can’t wait to get out of this car,” Sam huffs, and leans back. Large as the Impala is, Sam can barely fit his frame into the front seat unless he sits up straight; now, his knees hit the underside of the dashboard, feet pushed into the back of the footwell.

In another life, Dean would’ve preferred to inherit another car, something with comfortable seats and legroom, something to keep his neck from cramping. One of those airline pillows sounds good right about now, with the wraparound cushion and cooling beads. The most he has is a misshapen pillow in the trunk, and half of the time, that doesn’t even work. Twenty-six, and he’s already falling apart, just because his father left him his old Chevrolet, without even considering just how uncomfortable it would be years down the road.

Still, he loves her, and he can deal with the pain, if it means they can make it to Panama City by nightfall. A full week in a hotel by the beach in the middle of December, with nothing but the sun and sand and endless naps. If only they can get there in one piece. The air conditioner is already on the fritz, and the heater will probably be the next to go, if Dean doesn’t get his hands on it before then. There has to be an auto shop somewhere in the city proper; if not, at least he knows how to fix it with the right tools.

Somewhere outside of Little Rock—maybe a few miles, maybe a few hours, Dean can’t tell anymore—the road signs blend into one another, and the roads break up from six-lane highways into two-lane strips. This early in the morning, the only traffic Dean sees is locals headed into the city with people like him, the ones driving without a purpose, just trying to make it to the next town safely.

And, the man wandering along the side of Interstate 40, wearing a coat in broad daylight.

Even at a distance, Dean can make out the stranger’s shape. He stumbles as he walks along the shoulder, one foot dragging. There’s no car in sight, no motorcycle driven into the trees, no vehicle at all. Whatever the reason he’s out there, Dean slows enough to catch Sam’s attention, breaking from eighty to forty and dropping. “You’re gonna pull over?” Sam asks, hiding a yawn behind his fist. “You know this is how horror movies start, right?”

“Shush,” Dean huffs. “Just gonna see if he needs a ride or anything.”

Gravel kicks up behind the wheels as Dean slows to a stop along the shoulder. Ahead of them, the man turns, just enough for Dean to see the solemnest eyes he’s ever witnessed in his life—and a bloodied incision across his throat. Dean’s stomach drops “Are we hallucinating?” Sam asks, his hands gripping the dashboard hard enough to turn his knuckles white. Another car passes, paying no attention to the man bleeding from his throat. “Is anyone else seeing this?”

“Don't think so,” Dean says, swallowing. He waits for the next car to pass before unbuckling himself and popping the door open; all the while, the man watches him, never quite moving save for when the breeze of a passing car blows his coat. In the distance, Dean hears Sam exit the car as well, his footsteps creeping slowly in the grass.

Not human, is Dean’s first thought. Any human would be dead with a wound like that, and definitely not walking on the side of a highway. “You okay?” Sam asks above the noise of the road, both hands shoved in his coat pockets.

The man shakes his head, and Dean’s stomach sours. “You got somewhere to be?” Dean continues. Startlingly blue eyes look to him, wet with unshed tears; the gash across his throat sluggishly bleeds a sticky white material, practically glowing in the early morning sun. Another shake of the head, and this time, a tear does fall, disappearing into the corner of his lips.

He opens his mouth, but no words come out. No sound at all, like his voice has been stripped from him with the drag of a blade. “Someone cut his vocal cords,” Sam suggests. It makes sense; Dean physically aches just considering it. “You think he’s—human?”

 _Most likely not,_ Dean thinks, flexing his fingers. Whatever he is, he’s alone and in pain—creature or not, no one deserves that punishment. “No, but it doesn’t matter,” Dean says. Stepping forward, he reaches out to take the man’s cuff, wrapping his fingers around his wrist. Despite the sun beating down, his skin is frigid, to the point of tremors. Dean can’t leave him here. “He’s coming with us, right?”

A nod, fragile as it can be. All the permission Dean needs.

-+-

Dean buys a whiteboard from the Family Dollar in Luverne purely for communication purposes. Seven hours in a car with the radio running is one thing, but sitting there in complete silence, watching the rearview mirror to make sure their new guest doesn’t bleed out in the backseat? An entirely different situation.

“This is for you,” Dean mentions as soon as he slides into the car. Over the bench, he hands the creature a felt-tip marker and the whiteboard, packaging already ripped off and trashed. “Figure if you can’t talk, you can at least write. You know how to do that?”

The creature nods, turning his attention to popping the top off the marker and writing as quickly as he can. In an almost archaic looking script, he turns the board around to reveal two short sentences— _My name is Castiel. I’m an angel_.

“No way,” Sam says, wide-eyed. “How’d you end up on the side of the road, in—Where are we?”

Dean sits up a bit straighter, jaw tightened ever so slightly. “Alabama,” he replies, slow. These days, finding a hunter who hasn’t had a run-in with an angel is almost an anomaly; granted, half of the sightings end up being just plain fantasy, but the ones that are real—the ones with numerous witnesses and mass miracles—all of the descriptions involve monsters made of fire and eyes, moving parts and an inescapable drone, like looking into the sun itself.

Castiel, though, looks human. Or, as human as an angel could be, with a gnarled wound gaping his throat. “How’d you get the—” Dean stops to slash across his neck, at which Castiel looks away. “That bad, huh?”

Castiel takes a moment to clean the whiteboard and scribble again, this time two words— _War. Banished_.

Sam blinks and shakes his head. “How long have you been down here?”

Briefly, Castiel looks to the Impala’s ceiling. _Three days._

“Can people see you?” Dean asks, to which Castiel shakes his head.

_Only if I want them to. I’m hiding._

“Figured that,” Dean sighs. Castiel gives him a look that Dean can only describe as remorseful; a tear spills from the corner of his eye, and Dean aches to wipe it away, for no reason other than comfort. “Look, I know this ain’t the most comfortable place in the world to be, but we’re going to Florida for a week. If you want, you can tag along, but if not—”

“We’re not gonna hurt you, if that’s what you were thinking,” Sam chimes in. Castiel just raises an eyebrow. “Just… figured I’d throw that in there.”

  _I need a place to hide_ , Castiel writes, following up with, _Just until I heal_.

Dean offers the barest hints of a smile, sparing a glance to Castiel’s throat. Blood and that strange white liquid still drip from his neck, not enough to stain his clothing, but enough to be noticeable. “Tell you what, we get settled in, and I’ll stitch up your throat, how’s that sound?”

Slowly, Castiel nods and places the whiteboard in his lap, pen still held between two fingers. Just once, Dean wishes he could talk, or at least communicate in a way that isn’t solely nods and half-cursive scribble. Now, though, he’ll take whatever he can get.

-+-

The Driftwood Lodge looks almost exactly the same as every other hotel on the strip, decked out in pale browns and oranges and pinks with porches facing the beach, and a small parking lot situated towards the road. Supposedly, this one has a pool and a shuffleboard court, not that Dean plans to use either of them while they’re there. Mostly, he intends to sleep and snorkel, and try to even out some of the new scars he collected over the past year.

Somewhere around the Florida border, Castiel finally passed out, face slumped against the back window and brow pinched even in his sleep. “He’ll be fine,” Sam whispers and unlocks his door, sliding out with little more than a rustle. “Stay here and watch him, I’ll go get checked in.”

 Dean waves him off with as much of a smile he can manage, given the twinge in his back. Fifteen hours of driving is no way to live, especially at his age.

Castiel blinks alert almost thirty seconds after Sam shuts the passenger door, eyes half-lidded and throat just as gnarled as Dean last saw. “Sammy’ll be a couple minutes,” Dean mentions, glancing into the rearview and catching Castiel’s eye. “You want me to sew you up?”

Faintly, Castiel nods and peels himself off of the window. Fishing his first aid kit out of the glovebox, Dean climbs over the bench seat, landing squarely on his ass in a tangle of limbs. “Should’ve gone through the door,” he tells himself before turning to face Castiel. Paler than before, Castiel looks to him, barely putting up a fight when Dean tips up his chin with a single finger. “If I do this, will it help you heal?”

Another nod. Under Dean’s hand, Castiel swallows, blood seeping once again from the wound.

Dean sighs, shakes his head. “Alright, buddy, tap me on the leg if it hurts.”

Castiel remains silent while Dean threads the needle through his skin, stitching together his torn flesh. Steadily, a white light glows whenever the ends touch. Under Dean’s fingertips, Castiel’s skin bleeds warmth, near-feverish. “Still with me?” Dean asks. Castiel lets out a sigh, almost inaudible, but there nonetheless. “I can read lips. Kinda have to after everything, but… You can use the board with Sammy, but you don’t gotta write down everything you wanna say to me.”

The last stitch pulled through, Dean swipes his finger across the incision, testing the strength of the string. _You’re too kind to me_ , Castiel mouths, lowering his chin. _I could be a murderer for all you know_.

“That’s the thing,” Dean says, wiping the blood from the needle. “You ain’t the first angel we’ve come across. Only one we’ve met tried to kill me, so I figured, if you didn’t pull one of those sharp-ass knives on us, you can’t be all bad.”

 _You don’t know me_ , Castiel reiterates, even more defeated than before. He slumps against the seat, eyes closed. _I was banished for a reason_.

“That reason involve you killing anybody?” Dean asks.

_The opposite. I refused. The seraphim thought I was disobeying the word of God, and cut out my grace._

Dean balks; before he can say anything else, Sam interrupts, tapping on the door with two card keys and a bag full of food. “We’re on the third floor, help me get the bags?”

“Gimme a sec,” Dean says, loud enough to make it through the door. “We’ll talk about this later, alright?”

 _Can I sleep first_? Castiel asks, and Dean just chuckles and pats his knee.

“Pretty sure we’re all gonna sleep. C’mon.”

-+-

Over the years, Dean has gotten used to shoddy motel mattresses, complete with springs and bed bugs and unidentifiable stains. These ones though, he never intends to leave. Heavy down comforters envelop him, allowing him to sleep through the night without any aids. The last he remembers, he fell asleep sometime after eleven, after Sam set up the pullout bed for Castiel.

Now, he watches the sun begin to rise over the horizon, the formerly pitch black of the night sky giving way to reds and oranges, slow in their ascent. Across the room, Sam snores and rolls over.

 A weight shifts behind Dean, the mattress dipping at his back. Part of him wants to fight, to throw whoever it is out of his bed, but he can’t. Not when he notices the empty space in Castiel’s bed, not when he feels an arm loop around his waist, dragging him closer. Hot breath on his neck eases his adrenaline; cold toes tease his own.

“Castiel,” Dean whispers, barely a noise. Still, Castiel holds him tighter, nose pressed to his nape. Somehow, just being held is more intimate than anything Dean has ever experienced.

 _Sleep_ , Castiel resonates to him, but not with is mouth. Terrified, Dean watches the first hints of the sun breach the ocean, and feels Castiel grip the necklace around his throat tight. Speaking—Castiel is talking to him, telepathically. _I couldn’t sleep alone. I’ve never been alone before._

 _Sorry_ , Dean thinks, turning his face into the pillow. _Kinda freaked me out there_.

 _Can I stay_? Castiel asks, in a voice that somehow reverberates through Dean’s entire body, soothing in a way it shouldn’t be. _I don’t want to impose, but—_

 _You’re fine. You ever celebrated Christmas_?

 _I’ve never left heaven_.

  Involuntarily, Dean snorts. He covers Castiel’s hand with his own, allowing himself this one comfort for as long as he can. _Then you’re in luck. I make a mean ham_.

-+-

Somewhere around noon, Dean makes it back from the Winn-Dixie with a ham and enough sides to feed a family of four, and a four-foot white Christmas tree with multi-colored lights. Not exactly what he needed—they can always leave it in the room after they leave—but it only cost him five dollars on top of everything else. All that, and he also managed to grab a three dollar pack of generic ornaments they can hang up if they get around to it.

From the bed, Sam stirs enough to peek out from under the blankets, his eyes growing wide when Dean sets the box down. “Dude, you got a tree?” he laughs, and Dean just grins. “You get lunch too?”

“Frozen pizza, cheaper than ordering in.” Dean sets the majority of his purchases in the refrigerator, including a pecan pie and a pint of vanilla ice cream. “You ever gonna get out of bed?”

“Not planning on it,” Sam yawns, flopping onto his back. “Castiel went to sit on the porch a while ago. Pretty sure he fell asleep out there.”

“Wouldn’t put it past him.” Laughing, Dean finishes putting away the groceries and shrugs off his jacket, hanging it over the back of the desk chair.

In Dean’s periphery, Sam finally drags himself out of bed and heads in the direction of the bathroom. Dean waits until the shower turns on before he slides the porch door open, where he finds Castiel sitting in one of the plastic chairs, facing the ocean. In his hands, he holds a small sand dollar, bleached from sitting in the elements for too long.

Green waves lap monotonously against the shore. For a while, Dean leans against the glass door and watches a boat pass in the far-off distance. A pair of dolphins trail after it, fins piercing the water every few seconds. The beach is mostly quiet, only a few people out and about. “You good?” Dean asks, to which Castiel nods.

At some point, Castiel changed into sweatpants and a thin t-shirt, most likely stolen from Sam’s laundry. Whatever the case, Castiel looks good now, out of his bloodstained clothes from earlier. The coat is salvageable, at least. _I didn’t hear you leave earlier_ , Castiel mouths. Dean almost misses it, too caught up in Castiel’s eyes to notice much else. _I thought you weren’t coming back_.

“Just a food run,” Dean grunts as he sits in the remaining chair. Facing Castiel, Dean shucks off his shoes and socks and props a bare ankle over his knee. “Sam get you all dressed up?”

 _He did_ , Castiel affirms. _He suspected your clothes might be too small, but his aren’t much better._

Dean just smiles and leans back. “Better to fall off you than be too small, in my opinion. He’s twenty-two and he’s still getting taller, how’s that possible?”

 _Some people are late bloomers, I suppose_ , Castiel says, mirth in his eyes. _Have you always traveled together_?

“Grew up on the road, I guess.” Shrugging, Dean eyes the ceiling. “Dad used to take us on what he’d call hunting trips, when Mom was on business trips. Only problem was, we didn't go out and kill Bambi. He took us out looking for vampires and werewolves, and whatever else he could come across. Small things, but… it stuck.” He stops, sighs. “Anyway, he died a few years back, and Mom’s still back in Kansas working her tail off. After we graduated college, we decided every few months, we’d go out and hunt, and in the meantime, we’d be normal law-abiding citizens.”

 _I take it you’re not in the business of killing angels_ , Castiel says, and Dean shakes his head.

“Most of us know enough to leave y’all alone. Last thing anyone wants is that on our soul, and I just…” Dean leans over, elbows resting on his knees. “I’m getting to the point where I’m starting to realize, maybe we’re not doing the right thing. Sure, there’s some monsters out there that are just killing people for sport, but what about the other ones? They have families, they’re just trying to survive.”

 _You can’t live with their blood on your conscience_.

Rubbing the bridge of his nose, Dean lets out a breath. “Guess so. I’m just getting… tired, of traveling, of having to scrub myself raw just to get rid of the dirt sometimes.”

Castiel considers him, absently rubbing over the stitches still sewn into his skin. _Is this why you’re here_?

“I guess. Never been to the beach before, so why not try to retire on a good note?”

 _It sounds pleasant_ , Castiel considers. _Are you planning to go to the shore at some point_?

Dean chuckles, and faintly, he catches Castiel smiling. “Later. Think I’ve earned my mid-afternoon nap. You in?”

This time, Castiel only looks back to the ocean, the breeze rustling his permanent bedhead. _I’ll stay here for a while_.

Sam emerges from the bathroom with a towel around his shoulders, whistling something Dean can’t quite make out. “Suit yourself,” Dean says, standing. He rolls his shoulders before patting Castiel’s, letting his fingers linger a bit too long. Whether or not Castiel notices—or cares, for that matter—he doesn’t stick around to find out.

-+-

Some days, Dean’s ears don’t quite work as well as they should. On those days, as much as he would like to join in on conversations, he just can’t, not with the near-constant ringing. And sometimes, there’s nothing at all.

Toes in the sand, Dean watches the waves silently lap at the shore. A few feet out into the ocean, their pant legs pulled up around their thighs, Sam says something to Castiel; whatever they’re discussing, Dean can’t make it out, not at this distance. Instead, he busies himself with watching the setting sun, eyes occasionally tearing. From the wind, he tells himself—not the fact that this time, his hearing might never return.

No matter how many surgeries he endures and how many medications he tries, this is something even the best doctors can’t fix.

“Dean,” Sam calls out, dull over the sudden roaring in his eardrums. _Good—it’s coming back_. Still, Dean squints just to see what Sam is saying, the orange light behind him quickly fading. “You sure you don’t wanna come out with us?”

“In a minute,” Dean manages, finger in his ear. Not that it ever helps things along, but it’s the thought that counts.

Sam cocks a brow, though, setting a few of his shell collection to the ground at Dean’s feet. “It’s happening again, isn’t it? You’re squinting.”

“I always squint,” Dean scoffs. Standing, he pats the sand from his shorts. “Need some damn glasses is what I need.”

“I can teach you to sign, if you want,” Sam offers, facing him as he walks backwards towards the surf. “It couldn’t hurt, and it’s cheaper than hearing aids.”

Dean tugs at his earlobe, massaging it a few times just to ease the sudden tinnitus. “Probably gonna have to take you up on that,” he says, wincing at the sound of his own voice. “God, that’s never fun.”

“You think Castiel could help?” Sam asks. Together, they step into the ocean where Castiel awaits, bent over and up to his elbows in emerald water. “Since he’s an angel and all, he could—”

“I’m not gonna put that kinda pressure on him.” Dean waves him off. “I don’t wanna start asking for favors when we barely even know the guy.”

Waves begin to make their way into his senses once again, the crash at least partially audible. Dean makes the most of it and smiles, meeting up with Castiel and Sam further into the water. _It took you a while_ , Castiel says to him once he’s close enough, the sun casting his face in gold. A halo highlights his hair, and for a split second, Dean almost believes it’s real. _I was beginning to worry_.

Grinning, Dean looks down to the water below, specifically at the stingray that keeps circling Castiel’s legs and incidentally brushing against his own. “I’m fine,” he lies. “You got a friend?”

“He’s had several of them come up,” Sam comments. He twitches ever so slightly when it flaps its fins against his calf, and Dean snorts, earning a smile from Castiel. “I’m just glad a dolphin or a shark hasn’t showed up.”

“Give it time,” Dean says, brushing Castiel’s shoulder. Again, his ears ring, but this time, he ignores it in favor of watching Castiel reach into the sea—only to pull the stingray out, a hand to its belly and another holding its spiked tail. As calmly as it can, it flaps and mouths at Castiel’s finger. “Dude—”

 _She wants to say hi_ , Castiel mouths, pleased with himself. _She doesn’t mind if you pet her_.

“It’s like that one zoo we went too,” Sam says, bright-eyed and enamored. Dean watches him stroke a finger along the stingray’s spine before he softly repeats the motion. “You remember that, Dean?”

“You cried because you couldn’t swim in the tanks,” Dean says, ignoring Sam’s indignant huff. “This make up for it?”

“Kinda.” Despite his shrug, Sam still smiles, even as Castiel lowers the stingray back into the ocean, where she happily begins to wind around their feet once again. “Cas, you think you can take us snorkeling tomorrow?”

Castiel nods. _I can try_ , he says, _but I’ve never swam before_.

Between them, the stingray surfaces long enough to splash water onto Dean’s shirt, soaking the hem through. All he can do is laugh, even if he can’t hear himself as well as he’d like. Wringing out his shirt, he promises, “We won’t let you drown,” like it’s the simplest thing in the world.

Like saving an angel is an everyday thing.

-+-

Before dawn, Dean meets Castiel along the shore once again, this time surrounded by fog. Behind him, Castiel’s coat shifts in the slight breeze, warm water lapping at his toes. He almost looks like he belongs here, sorrowful eyes staring out at the horizon. Last night, Sam cut his stitches off while Dean was in the shower; now, all Dean can see is a faded scar, one he aches to touch once again.

“I’m deaf,” Dean says, catching Castiel’s attention. Side by side, Dean listens to the waves, eyes closed. “Or, kinda. Comes and goes, but it’s annoying. Too much scar tissue, apparently, and no one’s figured out a way to get rid of it. Last night, I couldn’t hear a word Sam was saying half the time.”

 _Were you born with it_? Castiel asks once Dean turns to him, brow furrowed.

Unconsciously, Dean rubs the back of his neck. “Remember when I said an angel tried to kill me?”

 _You heard their voice_ , Castiel says, immediate, and Dean nods. Gentle hands cradle his face, fingers pressed over his ears; Dean flushes, but otherwise watches him. _I’m sorry, but there’s nothing I can do. As much as I’d like to—_

“It’s fine,” Dean sighs. He lets Castiel’s hands linger, fingertips gliding over the shell of his ear, almost a caress. “It’s been almost… God, seven years now? Figure if it ends up permanent, at least I can still understand what people are saying.”

Through his nose, Castiel lets out a breath. A wave crashes around their feet; a chill spreads up Dean’s legs, both from the water and the fog rolling off the ocean. _I’m sorry, Dean. Angels aren’t meant to use their true voices around humans. You could’ve gone blind as well, or died_.

“Think I can handle spontaneous deafness,” Dean says. He eventually covers Castiel’s hand with one of his own, relishing the warmth he finds there, and the solace it brings. “How’s your voice?”

 _Recovering_ , Castiel assures. _My fall has left me… dry, of sorts. My grace will replenish in time, and with it, the rest of me will heal_.

Good, Dean thinks. The sooner Castiel can talk again, the sooner he can stop straining his eyes. If things progress like they’ve been going, though, he might have to invest in glasses after all. “I’m gonna start dinner soon,” he says, to Castiel’s nod. “You wanna help? Sammy’ll probably keep you busy if you don’t.”

 _I’ll alternate_ , Castiel says. _Your brother is far more interesting than you give him credit for_.

“Hey, I give him plenty of credit,” Dean joshes. “Half of it goes straight over my head, anyway. All that legalese crap he’s into. You believe he graduated in two years?”

Castiel nods, mirth in his eyes. _I can. Don’t belittle yourself though. You’re smarter than you think_.

“Right.” He butts Castiel’s shoulder as he turns, just enough of a brush to be familiar, trusting. _If I was so smart, then I wouldn’t’ve been hurt in the first place_.

-+-

Castiel dangles a clear plastic ornament from his finger. In the early morning light, the sun glimmers through the sphere, casting small rainbows onto his hand and the wall. All the while, Dean and Sam diligently hang the rest of the ornaments on the branches.

“You can put it anywhere you want,” Dean says, glancing over to him. Castiel hasn’t moved since Dean handed the ornament over, except to occasionally tilt it, catching the sun at different angles. “C’mon, don't just stand there.”

“It’s fun, Castiel,” Sam chimes in, pulling another ornament from the container, this one bright blue and decorated in glued-on snow. “We couldn’t really get presents this year, but being together is the next best thing, right?”

Castiel nods, considering the ornament one more time before he places it on the tree, hanging it from a lower limb. Here, the sun casts rainbows and sparks of light onto the floor, putting all the lights strung throughout the tree to shame.

Dean snorts, spinning an ornament by the hanger. “You were just waiting for that to happen, weren’t you?”

“I was,” Castiel croaks—and Sam practically chokes, beating his chest. He can talk—and what a voice, at that. Nothing like the sound Dean heard through telepathy. Deeper, richer, with an edge of gravel. Eyes wide, Castiel looks between the two of them, touching his fingers to his lips, throat. “I’ve—recovered.”

“It’s a Christmas miracle,” Sam laughs. Standing, he stretches his legs before throwing Castiel into a hug. Castiel, for the most part, remains still, arms at his sides; Dean hides a laugh behind his hand, even after Sam lets go. “You sure you’re fine?”

“I think so,” Castiel says, still touching his throat.

If Sam weren’t in the room, Dean might do it for him, cover the wound with his palm and trace the line of it with his fingertips. Strange as it feels, all Dean wants is to console him and get as close as he can into his space. It’s not purely lust; there’s something within Castiel that resonates with him. Something he desperately wants to understand, to know.

 “It’s good to finally hear you,” Dean says, clearing his throat. He pats Castiel’s shoulder, lingering probably too long, but Sam doesn’t notice. And if anything, Castiel smiles that much brighter, joy wrinkling the skin beside his eyes. _He really is beautiful_. “Was starting to worry about you.”

“You don’t have to worry,” Castiel says. Dean lets his hand drop, tracing down the bare skin of Castiel’s arm, all the way to his wrist. “Having you both here has helped.”

Nodding, Dean turns back to the tree, fighting the flush no doubt painting his face. “Glad we’re good for something,” he says, this time, his heart in every word. “You wanna put up the tree topper? I got the fanciest star you can get for five bucks.”

“Surprised you didn’t spring for the angel,” Sam says, pulling said star out of a Have A Nice Day bag. “Though now it seems kinda insensitive.”

Castiel shrugs and takes the star after Sam unwraps it. “I’m interested to see your interpretation of angels.”

“We probably bastardized it,” Dean chuckles. “Fluffy wings, halo, the whole shebang.”

This time, Castiel laughs, only to cough afterward. Dean has lozenges for that, somewhere. “Perhaps in our vessels, but in heaven, we’re… vast. More than you can even fathom.”

Dean swallows, wills himself calm. The last thing he needs to consider is _that_ out of context. “Good to know."

-+-

Christmas dinner takes place on the porch, listening to the waves crash upon the shore and seagulls squawking from the sky. Nothing fancy, but Dean put everything into the ham he had, and the microwave didn’t do a terrible job with the rest. From three stories up, Dean watches strangers pass on the beach between shoveling bites of food in his mouth, all while Sam and Castiel share stories; mostly, Sam talks and Castiel listens and nods, and samples whatever Dean offers on his plate.

“Dean mentioned he was thinking of retiring,” Castiel says, careful about his wording.

Dean’s heart races, especially when Sam looks at him, plastic fork halfway to his mouth. He didn't intend to have this conversation until tomorrow, or maybe the last day of their stay—not now, right in the middle of dinner and people-watching. “You’re serious?” Sam asks, setting his fork down, potato salad abandoned. “Like… You wanna go home?”

Dean sets his plate down, wiping his sweating palms on his khakis. “Don’t you?”

“I mean, I wouldn’t mind it.” Sam shrugs. “I just didn’t think you wanted to. All you’ve ever wanted to do was hunt, even when we were in college.”

“That wasn't my dream, though.” Palming his eyes, Dean exhales as deeply as he can, until his vision starts to spin. “I just did it because dad forced us when we were kids. And after that, I just… kept going, because I didn't know what else to do. But I’m tired of it, I’m tired of hauling ass from place to place whenever I get downtime, and no offense, but I’m really tired of having to drag you along.”

Sam shakes his head, clasps his hands together. “I didn’t want this either, Dean. What he did, it wasn't right, but we don't have to be like him. We can just… go home, get jobs. Hell, buy a house.”

“My credit’s not good enough for that,” Dean snorts. He claps, once, just to clear his head and hear something other than the ocean. “So you really wanna do it? Give up hunting and get a normal job?

“I actually put in my resume at a few places last week,” Sam admits, and Dean just raises a brow. “What? If you weren’t gonna bring it up, then I was.”

“I think that’s a nice present to each other,” Castiel says as he steals a piece of ham off Dean’s plate. To that, Dean can’t disagree. “Where is home?”

“Kansas,” Dean answers. “About two days north of here, if you’d wanna go back with us?”

A myriad of expressions cross Castiel’s face, more than one horrified; though, Dean notices his wonder the most, light overcoming his eyes. “I think I’d… like that. Seeing this country, experiencing things in this body. I’ve only ever been here once before, but… that was a long time ago.”

“You can tell us about it, if you want,” Sam suggests, and Dean nods. “We’re still here for a few days. Plenty of time.”

 Solemnly, Castiel agrees. “I’ll let you know.”

-+-

Around midnight, a group of teenagers gather on the beach a ways from the Driftwood Lodge and begin to sing Christmas carols. Obnoxiously loud. Dean blinks at the moon passing through the sheer curtains. Even though the closed door, he can hear them, tone deaf and annoying. “I wish they’d be quiet,” Castiel whispers, almost drowned out by Sam’s snores in the other bed. “They’ve been outside for an hour.”

“Tis the season,” Dean huffs, burying his head under Castiel’s chin.

For reasons he can’t quite understand, listening to Castiel’s breathing calms his nerves, easing him into the mattress even more than a comfortable blanket or a really good orgasm. That, and Castiel’s arm wrapped around his waist, their legs tangled together for the third night in a row. Like this is normal, like this is something they’ve always done. A single pleasure Dean rarely allows himself, the touch of another, the warmth of shared bodies in a confined space. Castiel burns hotter than a furnace, sometimes; now, he smolders, cool enough to touch without breaking Dean into a sweat.

It shouldn’t scare him as much as it does, embracing an angel, wearing only underwear beneath the covers. Dean passed out around nine, full of grocery store pie and ice cream, and lost his shirt sometime between then and now. Castiel’s cold nose presses against his forehead as he resettles himself, a hand settling over the small of Dean’s back. He rubs concentric circles there, and Dean lets out a breath, melting even further.

“Why’d you get banished?” he asks in the lull between songs, currently entranced by Castiel’s lips, moonlight glancing off them. “Figured… you can’t’ve done something bad, if you’re so…”

“Nice?” Castiel whispers. His breath smells like peppermint candy canes, probably eaten within the last half hour. Dean nods and curls in closer. Quietly, Castiel begins, “The angels have been fighting for centuries, over who can control heaven in God’s absence. We haven’t felt his presence in… hundreds of years, and the angels are breaking into factions, vying for power. I led a resistance force, attempting to wrestle power away from the seraphim, but I was seen as a traitor.

“They gave my followers an ultimatum, to join their side or die, and they all… left me, Dean. They left me to die at the hands of the most powerful creatures in existence, and they… They could’ve killed me. But they just dropped me in a field, and I woke to a cow licking my face. For… days, I didn’t know what to do, so I just started walking, hoping I could return home, or find help.”

“Then we drove up,” Dean says. “But why couldn’t you talk? We just figured they cut your vocal cords.”

“They did,” Castiel confesses, soft. Outside, Jingle Bells turns to O Come All Ye Faithful, an uneven chorus that somehow fails to ruin the mood. “But it was more of a blow to my grace. They laced their weapons with poison, and they intended my death to be slow, agonizing. How I survived… I’m not entirely sure.”

Dean pets over the scar lining Castiel’s throat, feeling the bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallows. “For what it’s worth, I’m glad you’re not dead,” he says. He allows his fingers to linger for a while, stroking over the silvered line before tracing up to Castiel’s jaw and over his ear. Closing his eyes only makes him more acutely aware of what he’s doing, his world boiling down to touch and sensation: chilled skin, warm breath puffing against his lips, eyelashes fluttering.

If he wanted, he could kiss Castiel. Could pull him in and lick into his mouth, could drag him even closer until he forgets just how they got here. Castiel inches further into his space, covering his hand with his own, fingers dovetailed. “Why do I want this?” Dean asks, softer than he intended. Through half-lidded eyes, he admires the swoop of Castiel’s eyes and the way his lips pout, parted just slightly. “Am I lonely?”

“I think we both are,” Castiel says. “Can I confess something?”

Dean nods without hesitation.

Castiel cradles his jaw with the utmost tenderness, fingertips teasing his skin and urging him forward. Willingly, Dean follows and meets his lips, swallowing down his moan, deep. Sheets shuffle, and Castiel straddles his hips, close to lying on top of him but not quite; Dean handles his weight, though, hands to Castiel’s jaw as they kiss, slow, nothing more than a wet press of lips and tentative tongues daring to explore. His skin warms when Castiel presses in even closer, taking one of Dean’s wrists and pinning it to the bedspread without a sound.

And yet, Sam continues to sleep on, unaware. “Not here,” Dean eventually gasps, eyes pinched shut as Castiel sucks a mark just beneath his ear. “Cas, c’mon, he’s gonna hear.”

“I just wanted you to know,” Castiel whispers heatedly into his ear, low enough to make Dean’s toes curl, “that this isn’t just because you saved me. This is because I’ve grown attached to you, and I’d like to see more of this world together.”

“Yeah,” Dean wheezes, heart in his throat. Terrified as he is, all he can do is smile and drag Castiel into another kiss, and the chorus outside breaks into a rousing rendition of Rudolph. “Come with us, come with me.”

-+-

A steady rain begins to roll in right as Sam finishes packing the Impala, hopefully for the last time in a long, long while. It’s sixteen hours to Lawrence, with a stop somewhere in Arkansas in between, splitting the trip into two days; with all of his heart, Dean intends to savor this last drive. He’s throwing away a significant part of his life for the sake of his own sanity and wellbeing—and honestly, he can’t wait.

Especially with Castiel by his side “You’re sure you wanna stay with us?” Dean asks, standing beneath the front awning of the Driftwood Lodge. Sam joins them after running across the parking lot, a newspaper held over his head. “I mean, we’re not exactly the best company, even if we are legit now.”

“Don’t lie to him,” Sam joshes. “We’re good enough, at least. I’m sure it’s gotta be better here than in Heaven, right?”

Castiel nods, lips splitting into a grin. “It is. The world here is so… unpredictable. Yet, I’d rather be here, where no one’s vying for my head. Where I feel… safe.”

Sam claps Castiel’s bicep; Dean flushes, rubbing the back of his neck. “You’re safe with us.”

“Don’t really know what we’re gonna do next,” Dean adds, looking down at his feet. “Well, I know what Sammy here’s doing, but I gotta find a job. Shit, can you believe that, a job?”

“You’ll do fine,” Sam laughs. “Cas can stay at our place, right?”

And like it’s the easiest decision in the world, Dean agrees. Castiel’s eyes light up with his nod, the gust from the storm rustling his hair, and in that moment, Dean has never seen anyone so beautiful, so untethered. It’s a miracle he manages to keep his hands—and lips—to himself. He does, though, pat Castiel’s shoulder, curling his fingers around it. “For as long as you wanna,” Dean says, shaking him a bit. “I’m sure you’ll figure out where to bunk.”

The smile Castiel gives him could light the world, if he tried. It certainly lights Dean’s. “I think I know where,” he says, covering Dean’s hand with his own. “I think I know.”

**Author's Note:**

> I finally wrote something long! Ish anyway. I struggled with something up with something Christmasy so this is what came out, holiday adjacent? Beach vacations seem to be my brand lately, who knew? This was written for the SPN Holiday Mixtape!
> 
> Thanks to Bexy for betaing as always! <3
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](http://tragidean.tumblr.com) and [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/loversantiquity).


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